But coming back was different,
they carried him between the two
he'd swallowed forty-seven pies,
the contest had been won for him
but now the bloat had set itself
into a strong expansive motion.
His boots were dragging, lifeless
and flecks of foam saliva drifted
and settled on his Wrangler jeans.
Then he threw up, one pie did follow
the one before, all half digested
and smelling of appalling sourness.
They crossed the railway bridge
and briefly let him go, to dodge the scum,
that's when he rolled and tumbled,
down the brown embankment
to the tracks below, and landing
with a screech of joyful liberation.
Which did get stifled by the shiny train.
Was followed by the sounds of nothingness.